The fire burned all night, an infernal symbol of dark intention, defend the forest wailed the blackened skeleton of the bulldozer. Do I know anything about this supposed crime? The motivations, to stop the rape of the planet, to protect nature from the desperately grasping claws of capitalistic automatons. I was nowhere near the scene when the
bulldozer lit up. If I were to plan it . . . a weakness in the perimeter fence, easily pried apart for access, ready accelerant for thirsty equipment, rags and flames, and a party like the Fourth of July. Call me Washington. A display of action, the minutemen defending their land from outside domination. Call me Jefferson. A manifesto written in flame, the smoking puddles of melted rubber, a bonfire for a midnight tea party. The red lights are coming, the red lights are coming, scatter through the fence and vanish into the trees, the sound of cannons in the dark, the smell of defiance drifting through the grateful colonies of pine and aspen, hiding their protectors, revolutionary compatriots. Call me guilty if I was there.
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POLITICAL Poem: A Letter to my Russian Mom after 24/02/2022, by Olya Prodan
Mom hello!
How are you? Simple question, right?
I hear they began to give out sugar
in a limited way
and the medicines are unavailable.
Bought some, hey?
What about dad?
Is he gloomy as always?
He’ll never say that it’s scary,
he’ll be silent until the end.
I know, you don’t sleep at night because of all worries.
You have hundreds of them —
I am the reason as well.
Since fifteen I was always at war
(not the best word today, I know).
I did not have enough peace,
nor cozy sofas
nor relatives at the family dinner
nor books
nor new travels and countries and people
nor lack of problems in this nervous life
I am short of air, but most importantly,
I am short of justice.
You raised me as a very brave girl,
and told me to take care of a good name and truth.
I take care.
But it is not easy. And I run away.
I could not take the barricades — I am short of power.
Could not win evil — misfire.
Unsuccessful were attempts to escape,
so far so good, but that’s ok.
I failed, but I want to try again — that’s my truth.
I’m not ashamed to want freedom, mom,
you taught me this – to be a good person.
Be proud of me, please
at least
because
I don’t settle for less
I do not pretend.
Mom, please
be proud of me.
I won’t lie, I won’t betray,
I’ll help, I’ll give everything away,
I will do what I must
to have what is needed.
This is the meaning of all cartoons
and fairytales of my childhood,
all stories, examples from life,
all our tiniest conversations.
If a stray cat was bullied,
I ran to save her. Do you remember?
I want it to be the same everywhere on our wonderful planet –
and so I will write,
I will build, change cities and countries,
take blame for all the mistakes
but it will be fair.
Be proud of me, Mom.
I want to open the news feeds
and see how the rockets are launched,
and not to kill people, but into the space,
and this is the main difference.
I want to discuss how humanity beats cancer,
how they build the fastest planes in the world,
to tell how we saw a zebra in Africa,
how artists make planes of paper sheets,
how people dance in the streets,
and how some letters disappear from our news — v, i, o, l, e, n, c, e.
But now they don’t,
do you see?
I’m sad they call me a traitor for wanting other news.
They call me a gnat and they want to spit me out.
I’m weak in conflicts.
I’m completely lost,
and even more scared.
I’m not a gnat,
I’m a human.
And I will not allow them to spit me out.
Good name and justice, do you remember?
Everything will be fine, the world is waiting for us ahead.
It’s big and open — I still believe in it.
Please believe with dad in all this too,
and wish the same
because that’s how I turned out
only because, in fact,
I copy you.
We will see each other soon,
but nobody knows the dates.
I don’t have any plans,
just for tonight.
But when we see each other again
we all be a little bit better
and it will be our warmest hug
ever
POLITICAL Poem: Clowns in Costumes, by Tara Bange
I saw it on the news,
A man deflated with cap in hand,
His last resort was the circus clan,
But to be a clown, you need a costume.
It’s more ridiculous than a cartoon
A bunch of clowns glaring at a man
For not spraying his face with a pail of tan
And wearing a matching suit.
“How dare you”,
Sulked the clown with the most tan,
“Not even do cartwheels and handstands.
You want a war to start, don’t you?”
“Aren’t you grateful for what we do?
Can you not at least do a little dance?”,
Snapped another clown on a rant.
I couldn’t believe this was the news.
“Next time, I will wear a suit
With more frills and sparkles than any of yours have.
First, step outside the circus, where I am”, said the man,
“Then you will see why I don’t wear costumes”.
POLITICAL Poem: The sunshine between the darkness becomes a rainbow to welcome us
Twice a day,
every day the whole sky
becomes a rainbow.
When the sun is close to the earth
whether it’s rising
or setting
anyway
when sunshine
hello,
to us
our sunlight welcomes us to the land,
Every time the sun gets closer
it turns the whole sky into a rainbow.
Red sunlight and
the blue darkness
become countless colours
How can we say that we are not welcomed by the world.
To those who are based on the rainbow,
we are welcome.
To those who despise the rainbow,
but we are welcome.
To foolish ones who do not recognise us,
what do you expect us to do?
The light of sky loves us so much!
